


The Silence in Between

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for round five of Come At Once, for the prompt, "Things we wish we could say." </p>
<p>When two stubborn people are in love, it's what isn't said that's the loudest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silence in Between

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains some ableist language and sentiment John throws at himself after an injury. Trigger warnings apply.

John winced but didn't flinch away as the paramedic cleaned the wound on his shoulder—his good shoulder, he noted with morbid humor. Of course he'd be shot in his good shoulder. Sherlock pressed close, swaying on the balls of his feet like a hound on the scent. John rolled his eyes and tipped his chin just slightly. _Go on. I know you want to. I'll be fine._

Sherlock's lips pursed and eyes narrowed. _No. You're injured, you idiot!_

John raised his brows. _It's a flesh wound._

_Liar._ Sherlock's eyes were barely open, so narrowed were they. Lestrade's voice drifted out over the cacophony of the club's still-screeching sound system and Sherlock twitched.

John hissed in pain when the paramedic prodded the wound with her finger tips. Sherlock froze in place, deer in the headlights. John closed his eyes, shook his head minutely. _If you want to help me, Sherlock, go find him. He's still in there somewhere, hiding. You know where I'll be when you're done._

The club's sound system shut off and a thin cheer went up from the gathered police. The night was echoing with quiet in the wake of the blasting music and John was not sure, but he thought he heard Sherlock sigh. “What hospital?” Sherlock asked the paramedic.

“London University,” she answered, not looking up from packing John's wound. 

John offered him a weak smile. _You already knew that, you berk._

Sherlock turned on his heel, arms stiff by his sides. “Don't let him leave without me,” he called over his shoulder. “I won't be but a minute.”

“Is he serious?” the paramedic laughed. “We're not a bloody taxi service!”

“My partner is...” John trailed off, well aware of the sudden shift in the paramedic's expression, the implication of his words. “He meant don't let me leave the hospital,” he lied. “He'll meet me there.” He didn't look at her face, but he knew she could tell he was lying.

***  
Mycroft sent a car to pick them up from the hospital after John was released. Sherlock accepted it without question or comment, making John wonder if he was still under the influence of narcotics. Sherlock ignored his shocked expression, his sounds of disbelief, and helped bundle him into the back seat of the plush towncar. He settled next to John and shot him a venomous glare. _You lied to me._

“It's not as bad as it looks, you know.” _I didn't want you to worry._

“Hmm.” _And you think I wouldn't worry about you being shot, no matter how grave?_ “Your first PT appointment is scheduled for a week from Tuesday.”

“Ugh.” _I hate this. I'm an invalid again. I'm useless._

Sherlock sighed and thumbed through messages on his phone, but his left hand crept across the seat until his pinky finger touched John's. _I was terrified._

John closed his eyes and let his head loll back against the seat. _Me, too._ “It's not as bad as it looks. I am a doctor, you know. I read my charts, I understood what they told me...”

“And you're not going to listen to any of it, push yourself too hard, and take twice as long to recover.”

“And be useless to you, I know.”

Sherlock snapped his head up so fast, John was surprised he didn't hear bones creaking. _How dare you..._

“Sorry, sorry...” _But it's true, isn't it?_

“You also have an appointment with Ella on Monday.” _That hurt me, John._

“Oh, fuck's sake...” Silence fell, and stretched like taffy, until they reached Baker Street.  
*** 

Sherlock pressed his forehead against the bathroom door, listening to John struggle on the other side, trying to shower without getting his wound wet, trying to dress himself without help. He felt a shade of guilt for the thrill in his belly due to John sharing his bed tonight. They had been lovers for over six months now, six months since a kiss after a rare knees up turned into a grope into a handjob into a blowjob into tangled bedsheets and sweaty skin and stubble burn and no regrets the next morning. But they rarely shared a bed overnight. Sherlock's unbalanced sleep scheduled, John's nightmares (new ones now, less Afghanistan and more London) sent them both to their own corners, embarrassment and awkwardness tucked under pillows and duvets. But now, tonight, they'd agreed that it would be better for John to sleep downstairs, Sherlock nearby (with him) 'just in case'.

Just in case... _I need to make sure you're still here, still breathing. >_

Just in case... _I need you to make sure I'm not a dream._

_John was cursing at the sink now, and Sherlock moved away from the door, slipping into his room and flinging himself into bed before John shut off the bathroom light and padded on slippered feet to stand beside him. “Well...” _I hate this. Not you, this... being in need._ _

“If you're going to stare at me all night, I suggest sitting in the wingback by the window. It's a much better view.” _Get in bed, you arse._

John climbed into bed carefully, twisting and turning like a slow moving eel, trying to find a comfortable position. On his old injury was uncomfortable, on his new one was unthinkable... 

“Just lie on your back,” Sherlock groaned from under his own upflung arm. _I wish I could make the pain stop for you._

“I snore if I'm on my back.” _I'm already just about useless. I don't need to give you one more thing to hate about me._

“I'm well aware.” _You need rest, John. I know that's rich, coming from me, but... please._

John sighed and twisted some more, finally coming to rest in a half-elevated configuration which appropriated Sherlock's favorite pillow and half the duvet. “Sorry.” _Not really. It means you have to lay closer to me now, doesn't it? I need you._

“No you're not,” Sherlock mutters, but smiles, teeth flashing in the semi-darkness. He scoots closer to John and presses his cold feet to John's warmer ones. “Bloody blast furnace, you are.” _If you had died... if the shot had been just a bit further left..._

“Oi, I'm the perfect temperature, thank you very much!” _I'm alive. Broken and ruined but alive._ He rested his hand on Sherlock's arm, stroking idly. “Sherlock...” 

“Burke was hiding in the basement of the club, did I tell you?” _I wouldn't let you go into the ground alone, John. I'd have followed you._  
“Mmmm.” _You did and you know it. Tell me again._

Sherlock pressed close, murmured his deductions into John's ear, his breath and the rumble of his voice sending shivers down John's chest, his stomach, his limbs. Sherlock's arm moved lower, stroking John's belly as John sank deeper into the pillows, turned his face to press into Sherlock's neck. “Brilliant,” he whispered to Sherlock's pulse. “Mad!” _I need you. I need you to need me._

Sherlock's questing fingers slid beneath John's pyjama waistband. He paused, fingers brushing the thick curls of coarse hair over John's groin. John's hips twitched just a little, pushed up a fraction, and Sherlock sighed. _This is a bit not good, isn't it?_ He brushed his fingertips over John's growing erection, lower over his balls, cupping them and rolling them gently in his hand. _You're wounded, my fault, if I'd been faster, if I hadn't been preening like a bloody peacock for your admiration..._

“Yes,” John sighed, and Sherlock froze. “Yes please,” John amended. _I know you're blaming yourself, you giant twat. Stop it. You didn't know Burke was still in there. None of us did. He was on CCTV leaving London just hours before. Not even Mycroft knows how he evaded all the cameras to come back into the city and surprise us at the club._ He pushed gently into Sherlock's hand again, hissing a pleasured sigh through his teeth at the sensation of long fingers finally closing around his now-hard cock. “It's okay—you're not hurting me.” 

“Tell me,” Sherlock said, then trailed off. _I'm always hurting you, though, aren't I? You just don't know it most of the time._  
John nodded, spreading his legs just a little, pressing his thigh to Sherlock's half-erect penis. Sherlock shivered against him, pressed his own hips forward, and John smiled. “Like bloody teenagers.” _Don't stop. I need this, need you... remind me I'm not dead._  
“I never did this as a teenager.” _Bloodhotsohardpleaseletmepleaseyoucomeforme._

John laughed softly. “Then you have some catching up to do.” He bit against Sherlock's pulse point and was rewarded with a full-body shudder. Sherlock's soundless huff of pleasure sent a sharp thrum to John's cock and he groaned. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he was worrying too much, it wasn't his fault, he wanted to beg for reassurance and to know he wouldn't be a burden, an albatross, but all he could think, all he wanted to think, was please yes more now now now now now as Sherlock stroked his prick. He groaned in a broken, breathless voice when Sherlock gently worked his foreskin, tugging and carefully pinching, rolling the head of John's cock until it was slick with pre-come. “Oh, yes, love. Yes!” _Shit..._

Sherlock didn't slow, kept stroking, fondling. His own cock throbbed hard, though, at John's words. He pressed against John's hip, barely stifling a groan as he ground hard, wanting to be inside him, taste him. _Love? I knew you did but I didn't know you wanted me to know. Oh, love, love, love..._ Unbidden, a wondering, strangled “Oh, John!” slipped from Sherlock's lips. 

John felt himself blush like a sixth former, caught out admitting he loved Sherlock. _Of course I do, you idiot, of course I do... Why can't I tell you? Why would you think otherwise?_ He thrust into Sherlock's hand, wishing for lube but not willing to stop just then, hoping the pre-come would be slick enough, just enough to get him there, to give them both what they needed. John's eyes flew open and he mewled a protest when Sherlock's hand suddenly released him and pulled away. He didn't get a chance to voice much more indignation, though, before Sherlock's mouth was on his cock, pyjama bottoms pushed hastily down and away. John's gasp was high and long, his fingers tangling in Sherlock's hair and holding tight with his good hand while Sherlock swallowed him down in one long, impressive slide. John's brain officially went offline, only processing the pleasure of Sherlock's mouth on him, of the voluptuous heat and wet slide of tongue and lips and throat around his hard cock. He tried not to thrust up, tried not to fuck Sherlock's mouth, but it was too much. Sherlock's choked encouragements drove him onward and John gave in, babbling nonsense and half-pleas, full on imprecations as he grasped Sherlock's hair and drove into his mouth. It took embarrassingly less time than John had hoped before he was coming, Sherlock swallowing as much as he could, licking and laving John's softening cock as he pulled away, a trickle of come on his chin and lips. “Oh, God,” John groaned. _You deserve someone whole, someone who won't slow you down, but my God... It isn't the sex. Not just the sex. The way you look at me, like I hung the moon... God damn it, Sherlock. I'm broken, broken and torn up, but I'll try. I'll do it all for you, even if it kills me._ He reached for Sherlock, tried to pull him closer. “Let me...” 

Sherlock ducked his head. “I, ah... well. I already...” He gestured vaguely in the direction of his own cock. “While you...” _I don't think this is what you meant by comparing us to teenagers..._

John laughed, breathless and sore and tinged with pain from his wound, from his thoughts. “Come here.” They negotiated around the wet spot, making half-hearted attempts to get up, to change the sheets, before Sherlock finally shoved his own pyjama bottoms over the spot and flopped back naked next to John. “A problem solver, that's what you are,” John chuckled, but not without a touch of admiration. “We really do need to get up.” _Hold me?_

Sherlock tangled himself on John's left side. _Let me hold you..._ “Mmmm.” 

“Sherlock?” _I do love you._

“Go to sleep. You need rest.” _I love you , I love you, I love you..._


End file.
